


Colt .69

by Dyuhdim



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Play, Anal Sex, Dry Firing, Gunplay, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 23:07:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15129734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyuhdim/pseuds/Dyuhdim
Summary: “Put it on.”Noctis hurries to obey. Lifting up onto his knees, trembling fingers flying to his button. But a boot obstructs him, crushing his erection uncomfortably against his pelvis. He whimpers in confusion.“Put it onthe gun. I’m going to fuck you with it.”Oh.





	Colt .69

He wakes to the press of frigid metal between his eyebrows, a heavy stress against his skull reminiscent of the beginnings of a headache. The bedsprings dip on either side of his hips, the mattress sinking beneath the weight of two bodies, caving inward with an eerie groan. His body pinned down by another settling along the planes of his thighs.

His eyelids fly open with a startled rush of breath, a gasp. There he sees Prompto, hazy like a dream. Past the barrel aimed steadily in line with his frontal lobe, through the darkness that refuses to yield to the soft stream of muted moonlight through smudged glass.

The ocean against the sky—their eyes meet, a silent assent. In this moment, they are strangers to one another. Noctis’ mildly frightened curiosity. Prompto’s carefully applied mask of inexpression; a look he has only ever witnessed from afar, and, then again, never trained on him. Always, always on enemies before the trigger is pulled and the air is sprang alive with the crack of thunder. The lightning that precedes it alive in those irises.

Barely there. Just a flash.

It often stirred an odd sense of excitement within Noctis, a thrill, as it does now.

Unlike when the adrenaline of battle bleeds from their veins, melting away Prompto’s cold exterior to be replaced with childish exuberance upon victory, nothing comes. It is a steady pulse without puncture to let it drain. They are stuck in time.

Noctis loves the sight of Prompto withering away beneath him, but leering high above is _new._ No less arousing. Is it the fear? He wonders.

He is riveted by the glimmer of metal as the gun pulls away, completely absorbed in the quickness of nimble fingers as they work to release the cylinder. A sharp _click_ resounds throughout the still room as it pops out of the frame to expose the rounded ends of several bullets. Tiny, deadly; waiting to be fired, churned down the barrel, embedded in flesh.

They move in reverse, falling away from their little hiding places.

“Count them,” commands Prompto.

One, two, three, four, _five._ Noctis counts each one aloud. Slow and precise, as if, at any moment, he will become lost between the last and the next.

Five bullets out of a total of _six._ Five laughably small, sleek, silver bullets encased snugly in copper cartridges.

They hit the sheets like rain against a window. A quiet series of _plop, plop, plop_ that is felt more than heard.

A shift of Prompto’s body, up and forward, draws his knees inward to pinch into his sides. He tilts the gun just so, raises a hand, sends the cylinder whirling, whirling, whirling in a blur. Then it clicks back into place, sealing away his fate in the concealment of a single bullet.

Dread seeps beneath Noctis’ ribs, hits his heart and dribbles down to his stomach. Or is it anticipation? Exhilaration.

“Feelin’ lucky?” Prompto questions, an unfamiliar air of confidence about him.

He leans closer, down into Noctis’ face, teasing, near enough to kiss.

 _Perhaps._ Noctis wants to say. But the gun is quicker.

The harsh pressure of it returns to its previous position, rendering him a cross-eyed fool as he gazes down the sight. Slyly it relocates to the soft curvature of the lump that bobs in his throat. The heaviness of it does not lessen in its path along the lines of his jaw, stopping only to nudge the underside of his chin and guide his head into reclining fully on the pillow beneath it.

Noctis is sure his breath is long gone before the metal begins to bear down. And if his vision is swimming, it is due to the plunge he takes in the large, reflective pools of Prompto’s hardened eyes, and not at all the shrinking of his esophagus.

Each gasp rattles, sounding wetter than the last. As each pull of oxygen becomes more difficult, the throb below comes harder.

This picture: Prompto above him, stealing his breath, on him, atop him. Can he feel it?

Spots are dotting his vision, little stars that plummet from the sky when Prompto says, “Get up.”

Noctis complies. He slithers out of the entrapment of Prompto’s legs, gives a strangled hiss when the action involuntarily pushes a supple bottom along the length of his growing erection.

The weight, the feel, of the muzzle is familiar as it reacquaints itself with his body the moment his feet touch the floor—this time jabbing insistently at the very base of his spine.

“On your knees.”

One instruction after the other.

Down he goes. His eyes follow on instinct. Embarrassed. _Shaken._ Steel finds each ridge of his spine, tracing up, up, up, burying in thick hair. The carpet under him is rough, barely anything between his shins and the floorboards.

Prompto’s footsteps are thudding as he saunters around Noctis, circling, soaking in the image of royalty forced to buckle.

Noctis watches those boots stomp back and forth, hands clasped tightly behind his back until Prompto pauses before him. A jolt of pain startles him, he yelps, scrambles to escape the iron-handed grip that threatens to tear the strands of hair right from his scalp.

“Look at me.”

A request contrary to the forcefulness of Prompto's hand. It lifts his head, redirects his attention.

The gun is brought forward to trace teasingly along the bitten, tender flesh of his bottom lip. Almost involuntarily, his tongue flicks out to follow, searching for a taste of what’s to come. The muzzles touches the tip and he parts his lips obediently.

A shiver shakes him, zips into a pulsating pleasure as the front sight of the barrel grazes his teeth, slides against the roof of his mouth. The weapon rests heavily upon his tongue, unmoving once the curved edge of the trigger guard collides with his chin. The absence of Prompto’s finger along the body of the weapon is thrilling, he knows it is gone in preparation to fire.

He wonders if the taste of gunpowder will leave him salivating in the afterlife. A thin ghost of acrid, bitter smoke permanent on his taste buds.

Prompto smiles tauntingly above, mischievous and knowing. He kicks a foot between Noctis’ knees, wrenches them apart until he is no longer resting his weight on his ankles but fully on the floor, that much shorter than before.

“Come on, Noctis,” he urges. “I thought you liked having things in your mouth. Didn’t you tell me that once?”

Really, he can't remember.

Then, is a question. Now, is the taste of cold metal.

“Don’t you like my gun?” he asks, innocently, grin collapsing into a pitiful pout.

Noctis nods, the hold on his hair relinquishing.

“Then show me.”

So he does.

It is an awkward affair at first. He is slow to draw back, hollowing his cheeks, caressing the metal with his lips. He learns the shape of the weapon with his tongue, licking along the underside, slurping dirtily along the barrel.

He fills his mind with thoughts of what he wants to do to Prompto, desperate for his attention.

He moans. He treats it like it's real. Pulls off, leaving the body to glisten with spit, tenderly kisses the muzzle, along the edge. He tastes the hollow where bullets eject, attempts to dig his tongue in with a needy desire for death. Little unknown pieces of weaponry map out the soft places in his mouth. He takes it deep, deeper until it hits the back of his throat, until he can lick the skin of Prompto’s finger and savor the tang of salt.

He sucks like he's trying to coax out that last hidden bullet, mewls because he's  _good_ , and Prompto gives it to him.

Smooth compression, immediate release, smooth release; three fleeting beats to a tense measure. The sluggish cycle of the cylinder: _Click. Click—_

“Bang!” Prompto singsongs mockingly just as the hammer yanks from the frame of the gun and snaps back into place.

Vibrations shoot through the metal and trill a siren’s song through the entirety of Noctis’ body. He imagines he feels it thrum, luring him to the edge. He is not in control. In fact, he’s lost it. Compelled, his hand dives between his legs, forcing the heel of his palm against his throbbing cock and squeezing his thighs together.

He groans, muffled then louder as the gun retreats.

Something hits him square in the chest before tumbling down into his lap. It crinkles when his fingers graze it; a tiny foiled package, glinting a gold that nearly appears silver in the slivers of moonlight. The edged perimeter pricks his skin.

Prompto must grow annoyed at his staring because he says, rather impatiently, “Put it on.”

Noctis hurries to obey. Lifting up onto his knees, trembling fingers flying to his button. But a boot obstructs him, crushing his erection uncomfortably against his pelvis. He whimpers in confusion.

“Put it on _the gun_.”

Hm?

“I’m going to fuck you with it.”

_Oh._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it looks cool but don't spin your cylinder.


End file.
